


We're Bleeding This One Through

by hillbillied



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Rating May Change, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: Andrew Haldane is chosen by Peace. His new lieutenant is chosen by War.Luckily for them, Andy's an atheist.
Relationships: Andrew A. "Ack-Ack" Haldane/Edward "Hillbilly" Jones, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Form & Void Sideslip





	We're Bleeding This One Through

**Author's Note:**

> graciously based in [captainkilly's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly) [Form & Void](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918033) universe (non-canonically of course) 
> 
> a huge thank you to her for indulging this fic and giving permission for me to write it!

**_‘MARINE CAPTAIN CHOSEN!  
USMC SAILS FOR THE SOLOMONS WITH PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND’_**.

It was quite the headline, printed in block capitals across the front page. The article below was a rousing rendition of said captain’s exploits, a poetic folktale regarding the United States’ latest posterchild.

_‘Captain Andrew Haldane, of the 3 rd Battalion, 5th Marines, departed our shores this week for the gruelling journey across the pacific – preparing to beat back the Jap invasion of Allied territory in the Far East. The 27-year-old from Massachusetts is the latest spectacular addition to the U.S roster of God-Chosen men all-set to hit the frontlines. The dashing officer stands at an imposing 6 feet tall and is a sure-fire sign of impending victory in the Solomons, his patron none other than the anxiously anticipated Peace - marking our brave boys’ battles as the good fight against tyranny we all know them to be.’_

What followed was a thrilling account of his divine moment, so to speak. The display that publicly marked him out as chosen, claimed by an otherworldly force. A deity’s avatar, the body through which they would deliver their whims to the world.

There had been a fight break out. Ornate language inflated this to nearer a riot in-print, as the reality was less spectacular. Restless marines had gone from knocking shoulders to loudly shouting to throwing punches. The perfect beginning to their long journey towards an island nobody had ever heard of.

So incensed by this display of aggression, Captain Haldane had inhaled deeply and let forth a rousing yell across the crowd. His cry echoed with the raise of his hand, the force of his voice rippling the air and knocking the breath from every marine’s chest. Some were allegedly knocked off their feet entirely. The article claimed witnesses saw a light flash from his fingers, others the shape of white wings at his back.

Silence fell and the argument vanished.

Andy scanned the text where he reclined on his bunk. The publisher had kindly sent him an advance copy to ponder over the voyage.

He was enjoying his minimal time alone, in a rare single room on an otherwise overcrowded troop ship. A real luxury, even with the metal door and squeaky wire cot. Sipping a mug of lukewarm coffee, Andy turned to the next page. The football results were written there and he found them much more appealing. The Statesmen were doing pretty well, considering the circumstances. Go, Aggies!

It was comforting to find something familiar in the printed letters. A little help with the bitter tang of a hurriedly made brew and the annoyance gnawing at his stomach.

That story on the front page was certainly entertaining. And just that; a story.

Truth be told, he _had_ broken up a fight down by the docks, and not using his hands. Never would he forget the faces turned towards his, the complete enrapturement that lasted the longest second of his life thus far. He could have commanded those men to do just about anything in that moment.

It had been a sickening sensation.

What _was_ a lie - had been since they whisked him into the nearest general’s office and began grilling him for answers – was that this was his first encounter with his patron ‘god’. He used the word only when necessary and in the most disparaging tone he could muster.

No, he’d met that insufferable creature before now. Quite some time ago, 1936 if he recalled correctly. (He tried not to.)

Nineteen years old and captain of the football team, the only captain he desired to be back then.

Pulling his helmet off revealed sweaty blond locks and the widest grin on the field. He was immediately swamped by his teammates. Every one of them wanted to get a hold of him, ruffle his hair, grab his waist. They all fell over together in an excited pile.

Lawrence had won the local league, their final game coming to a triumphant close. Andrew’s strategy had handed it to them on a platter. He felt radiant.

When enough of his friends got up to let him stand, the captain could finally exhale deeply and feel the relief of victory empty his chest. His gaze moved over the stands. He waved to his parents, both on their feet and clapping.

His eyes wandered further. They found a stranger, sat alone in the back row, unnoticed by those in the seats around him. He was applauding too.

What a terrible sight.

There was no description Andy could find to describe it. A deep-set knowledge, an immediate recognition, of a being beyond human. All his senses were overwhelmed in a single instance, every part of mind alight.

Drowning was similar enough. Inhaling water that tasted sweeter than honey and was twice as thick, seeping into every pore where it filled his body with satisfaction. It felt wonderful. It felt correct.

It left him silent and cold.

He had been chosen.

Which would be enough for most people to drop their helmets, push aside their teammates, and walk to meet their destiny. Nobody around would blame him. They’d be happy for him. Some might even envy him.

Instead, Andy turned away. He hid his scowl as best he could. He didn’t want to ruin today’s victory for anyone but himself.

He left that unfamiliar god in the stands of his football field. The entire team was going to the nearest diner for a celebratory feast and a lively afterparty. Andy would be damned if he wasn’t going with them.

He left that horrible man in the stands by himself. Not once did the god stop clapping.

In the dark of the evening, when the streetlamps were buzzing and the sun had long since vanished, Andy returned to the football field.

The party had been fun, he’d enjoyed it as best he could. He’d already told his parents not to wait for him tonight. He’d be home before morning.

He knew he’d find _him_ still there, waiting. It stirred a disgust in the captain’s gut, knowing he was expected. No longer being in control was a rotten feeling.

The pull of a deity was difficult to resist. He comforted himself by pretending he had important questions that needed answering. He was here of his own accord, he repeated back to himself. A mantra that convinced no one.

Still in his knee-high socks and numbered shirt, Andy climbed the stands. His cleats marked every stair he ascended with a soft clack. He reached the top and planted himself carefully on a seat to the god’s right. He left a chair between them empty. This was no friend of his.

A tense quiet dragged on, disrupted only by the hum of the field’s lights and the occasional insect. Mortal fingers tapped restlessly against one man’s knee. His company sat perfectly still, content to watch the empty pitch. He was in no hurry.

“Why are you here?” The captain demanded.

He received a soft hum in response.

“You’re smart enough to know better than that.” The god replied.

He sat back leisurely in his seat. Somehow, he made a stiff and painful chair into a comfortable throne. Fingers threaded over his chest, he lifted his legs and rested his feet on the row in front. He wore pale breeches, which – in his current uniform – his company couldn’t judge him for.

“Then you should leave.” Andy instructed, “Find someone dedicated to your cult, whichever one that might be.”

“I am well aware of your secularism, Andrew.” The god replied, exhaling with a fond condescension, “It is not the infallible shield you believe it to be.”

The stands echoed with a short, mocking laugh from the football captain. His legs moved as he shuffled in his seat, already preparing to depart. They were done here. No amount of money or faith could keep him. No supernatural pull of fates, either.

Before he rose, Andy turned to his unwanted company. “If you knew me at all, you’d have realised this would be a waste of your time-“ His cleats snapped against the floor as he pushed himself up, “-and mine.”

He started back down the path he came, without a single glance over his shoulder.

“I didn’t come to coerce you, Andrew!” The god called casually after him.

“Then fuck off!” Andy called back.

His feet continued tap, tap, tapping down the steps. A righteous betrayal spurred him downwards, back onto the field he loved so dearly. The night sky spun above him, stars drifting across the heavens. Every one of them stabbed him in the back.

This was everything he never wanted.

“ _Follow him to where he really wants to go_.” The god whispered.

The words tickled his ear as if they were incredibly close, an inch or so from his back, yet Andy knew the man hadn’t approached him. His teeth gritted dangerously when he realised he’d slowed down, crawling to a stop. He was almost on the grass, another step and he’d meet friendly earth.

Instead, he turned around. He hated himself for it.

He was letting this creature – a self-proclaimed deity he did not subscribe to – control his actions. Curiosity got the best of even the most celebrated captain.

“What?” He hissed. It didn’t sound as menacing as he’d hoped

No longer in the top of the stands, the god sat only a few rows away now. He smiled knowingly.

“ _Follow him to where he really wants to go_.” He repeated.

Andy’s shoulders fell. His expression crumpled from anger to confusion. Frustration bit at his heels and he had to swallow down unsavoury words.

“I don’t care for riddles.” He said, collecting himself. Aggression had failed but he was sure he could outmanoeuvre this creature.

He received a slow blink in return. A hand ran over the god’s hair as he smoothed back his locks, keeping them neat where they were pulled into a ponytail.

“It’s advice.” He stated. Whatever following remark hovered on his tongue, it was withheld.

In the silent of the night, the captain knew he should have walked away already. He had been hooked and so easily too. What a joke he’d made of his own convictions.

Watching him quietly, the god took his lack of response as permission to continue.

“ _Follow him to where he really wants to go_.” He repeated a third time. He paused, as if counting his statements.

Andy waited. Despite every thought in his mind demanding he leave, he waited.

“ _Correcting some mistakes is unwise_.” His company continued. The second piece of his intricate puzzle, the pieces of which he held exclusively in his hands. “ _Do not hesitate to cover the mouths of those who endanger you_.” He then said, a third cryptic addition.

The muscle beside Andy’s eyes twitched. His patience battled heroically against his curiosity, gaining and losing ground in a heavy stalemate. One would slip soon, most likely the latter, sending the conflict into a downward spiral to its conclusion.

“ _Interfere only to share responsibility_.” The god said, a fourth instruction.

His smile shifted. A tiny mark of amusement. Whatever it was, he liked his fifth statement best.

“ _You shall have victory_ ,” He recited, “ _Or you shall have death_.”

Where their eyes met, Andy felt a burning sensation.

He thought then that the words were nonsense. He thought that for a long, long time afterward as well.

This was exactly as he’d imagine gods to be, should he have thought to meet one. Exactly what his favourite lecturers and authors had described; arrogance abound and riddles a plenty. Nonsensical, desperate creatures that delighted in confusion and their own mystery.

At nineteen years old, Andy opened his mouth to reply to the ‘advice’ he’d been offered.

He remained silent. He closed his mouth.

A calm, collected expression took his features. Within such a short encounter, he had been driven to aggression and bewilderment and eventually, to this bizarre ending. Even as prepared as he always assumed he was, he’d slipped and stumbled, lost control of the reigns without a fight.

With a stiff nod – to himself, and nobody else present – the captain turned his back to the man.

He walked away across the football field.

In his haste to leave, he hadn’t even asked his god’s name.

After the ‘incident’ at the docks, Andy had found himself all but locked inside the nearest general’s office. It was deep within the local war administration, forcing him out of sight while his superiors worked their publicity skills. They had to make a positive example of this.

The MP on the other side of the door felt unnecessary. The captain supposed he’d have done the same, knowing how erratic and unpredictable chosen people could be. A precaution, then. Nothing personal.

He looked out the window as a distraction. Marines were marching in the slim part of the barracks he could glimpse. Everyone was preparing to ship out soon. Nothing would anger him more than having this incident delay that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andy could see the general’s desk. (They were having trouble getting hold of anyone senior enough to deal with this.)

Behind that desk, there sat a familiar man in white breeches. He was smiling, even as his company remained at the window, and didn’t turn to face him.

It had been quite a while. Only one of them had changed.

“I never accepted your patronage.” Andy stated calmly.

He wasn’t that betrayed teenager anymore. He had grown up and mellowed and found stability in himself. The voice he used to use on only friends he could apply to everyone these days, a wise and soothing presence in the lives of many. His advice was valued and his delivery of it perfect.

He’d achieved all that himself. Off his own back, on his own time. No divine help needed.

“I never offered it.” The god replied.

Touché. It wasn’t the killing blow he imagined, however.

“It was implied.” The captain said. He turned away from the window, showing off that cool, collected expression. “You appear to people, you ‘choose’ them, and they accept. That’s the usual pattern.”

Inspecting his fingernails, the god hummed his acknowledgement. He nodded.

“ _Usually_.” He said. It was a hefty word. “For most gods, that is.”

Between their last conversation and this one – all eight years – Andy had been preparing himself.

He’d walked home dejectedly the night Lawrence won their final game in 1936. The front door was left unlocked for him and he’d crawled into a cold bed. Under the covers, he’d clenched his fists and mourned the delightful evening he should have had.

In the halls, doorways, and rooms of the Haldane house, there sat no alters or shrines. There were not gods within these walls. Never had been, never would be.

He felt woefully cornered back then, a sensation he vowed he’d never allow to return. He was under no delusion the deity who wanted him would simply disappear, however.

Climbing out of bed the next morning, he said nothing of it to his mother and father. He smiled and carried on with his life, godless as ever.

Books became his greatest ally. The Lawrence library provided, the section entitled ‘ _Gods and God-Chosen_ ’ spanning several wooden bookcases. The captain had run is fingers over them all, sliding his skin across spine after spine.

He’d found his beloved Rosenberg’s work there, nestled between ‘ _Elementalism: Worshiping Fire, Earth, Air, and Water_ ’ and ‘ _19 God-Chosen Presidents of the United States_ ’. The title he pulled free, despite having read it cover to cover already, deserved a better resting place. He’d held it in his hands and smiled at it when he needed a break from other authors, a comforting weight in his palm.

‘ _Divine Parasites_ ’ by Abraham Rosenberg. A true atheist and publisher of the Rosenberg Theory, included in the aforementioned title from 1897.

The belief that ‘gods’, as they were commonly known, were neither divine nor immortal. They were worthy of no more reverence than a person - less in fact, due to the countless problems they had caused humanity. The open conclusion stated simply that their continued existence hinged on nobody having figured out how to kill them yet, thus resigning the world to its worship.

It was a popular belief nowadays, though few went as far as to denounce gods completely as Rosenberg did. And more still continued to kneel before altars in their homes or towering churches, dedicated to deities of questionable morals.

Andy put that aside. The stacks of books he would take home to read were an open-minded selection.

He would find the god from the football stand. He would learn his name and he would do so without asking.

In theory, he already knew the name. That was what all his research told him, that a chosen person simply ‘knew’. He didn’t somehow. He had his suspicions as to why.

He read about War briefly but quickly deduced it wasn’t her. She was a beast, and she would not be found prowling a sports field in Massachusetts.

He shifted through the elements, the seasons, constellations, animals, geographical locations, all with relative ease. Concepts were clearly his calling. (He refused to call it that.)

He found it eventually. A god described as male in appearance, allegedly wearing a wreath upon its head and dressed in pale clothes.

“Fine work, Andrew.” He muttered to himself. The voice wasn’t his.

“You’re Peace.” Andy deduced.

Behind the general’s desk, the god gave no reaction. He simply blinked, once. Then once more, unphased.

“Does that upset you?” He asked, after a moment of consideration.

What _upset_ the captain should be obvious. Being chosen by an entity you believed to be the bane of humanity wasn’t his ideal scenario. Unwittingly using said entity’s power in public was closer to a nightmare scenario. He bore it bravely and would not allow this to set him back.

He would be sailing across the Pacific Ocean with the rest of K Company – _his_ company. There was nothing in this world or the next that could prevent that.

The tricky question remained. Andy considered for a moment, wetting his lips with expert subtlety.

All gods should be equally distasteful to him. Reading about the experiences of those chosen by the likes of Death or Pestilence, however, had left a different taste in his mouth. One of relief.

“Not as much as you being War or Cruelty would have.” He admitted.

It was an affront to his morals, in a sense, but it should wound the man behind the desk more. A man who raised his eyebrows, surprised by the honesty and insult.

“Well,” He replied, “Sorry to disappoint.”

Voices began to approach from the corridor. The general had returned and numerous officers were marching Andy’s way.

He faced the entrance and clasped his hands behind his back. Back straight, chin up, ready for what came next. He would see this through and emerge with what he wanted. Which wasn’t much, beyond what he’d already signed up for.

If the god remained in the room a moment longer, he paid no mind to it.

That entertaining newspaper article was published soon after.

It was accompanied by posed photographs, camera flashes capturing a immaculately smiling Captain Haldane as he put on the perfect performance. He was Peace-chosen, after all. The undisputable proof that the United States was on the right side of history once more.

The dress uniform he had to wear was a little much, though his opinion was kept to himself. There wasn’t anything particularly ridiculous about it – he’d read about the British ceremonial chosen uniforms, stifled his laughter at the illustrations – so he pretended not to notice the difference.

A beautifully embroidered patch bearing Liberty’s torch adorned his shoulder, along with a deep red band around his peak cap with gold braid. His tie was the same red. Nothing overly fancy.

It marked him out, that was all. Normally thriving in the spotlight, Andy didn’t appreciate this particular attention.

At least his combat uniform was the same as ever.

Andy had been popular before. He was a sensation these days.

Sailing towards the Solomon Islands shouldn’t have felt like that high school football game. Yet when he emerged onto the deck, the marines parted for him. Hardened and battle-ready men, stepping aside so he could move freely through hastily made paths.

They were in awe of him. He didn’t address whether he liked that or not.

Pulling himself up onto the nearest metal platform, a makeshift stage so that he might address his company, Andy felt as though wings had spread from his very back. He ignored the unnatural feeling in his temples, the imagined prick of laurel leaves.

Every pair of eyes was on him.

“You’ve all trained for this.” He began. “We’ve worked hard to be here - and here we are.”

He watched their gazes flicker. They hung on every syllable, every sound. Every god-given word. The haziness behind their eyes swirled in captivation, an ocean sparkling in his presence, their sunlight.

Andy blinked. He turned and looked over each of them, able to glance at each of them and none of them all at once. He realised every man here saw him staring directly at them.

An incredible, persuasive power. Where it shook him, scared him even, he held the sensation deep down. Down, down, _down_ in the bottom of his gut and he never once let it show. He wore the faintest of smiles.

“Follow the man in front of you.” He said. “He knows what he’s doing, and so do you.”

The usual squawks of gulls, the banging of the rigging, the popping of bubble-gum, had all vanished. Waves lapping the hull were his only accompanying music. The world worked to accommodate his speech. Everybody noticed.

“Keep your head down and your eyes out.” With a nod, directed at every single marine present, he composed his conclusion. “Good luck. Gods bless.”

What a terrible thing to say.

After the last sound passed his lips, the spell broke. That captivation dissipated and saw eyes blinking in the sunlight, the roar of the engine rising in volume. They hadn’t once stopped moving.

“Aye, sir!” was cried to the heavens.

Their captain’s smile grew. It covered where his gut had twisted, shifting into an uncomfortable knot. A feeling born from desire, from pride, from perverse enjoyment.

Andy refused to acknowledge it.

“No true divinity exists beyond what man finds fit to believe into existence.” Andy recited.

Rosenberg, obviously, but that need go unstated.

His finger was tapping against his thigh, supported by the canvas chair he sat upon. A truly spine crunching thing but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Or rather, marines on an inhospitable enemy island couldn’t be choosers.

They’d set up shop in a tent amongst the trees, their command post. Several days in and they were feeling mighty proud of themselves. They hadn’t met any resistance yet. The fifth marines would be leading forward from here, approaching the dreaded airfield, ripe for the taking.

Even without active gunfire in the distance, the unease was thick enough to chew on.

“You still on that?” Puller asked him.

The colonel was standing so he could pour over the rickety command desk they’d erected for him. His company had been on his feet too, until he’d been ordered to sit. It left him restless where he crossed his legs and fought to obey.

“It’s my beliefs, sir.” He replied simply. “I would never ask the Libertians to take down their shrines or the Shepherdists to stop attending services.”

“Mnn.” Whatever the hum was, it indicated Puller’s agreement. “Well, you best keep that to yourself.” He instructed.

The captain gave a respectful nod. “Of course, sir.”

Morale was a fragile thing. Chosen were good for that, at least, making mortal men feel invincible on the line. Andy was willing to play the part and keep his atheism no louder than a whisper. Better they believed they had divine providence on their side.

Ironic, since he hadn’t told them he was unclaimed.

Unchosen? Unaccepted? The correct description escaped him. Whatever the word was for not accepting your god’s offer of patronage. An offer that had merely been implied, in his case, and never formally extended.

Fine. Andy was fine with that. No temptation clung to an offer that didn’t exist.

And he quite enjoyed the image of the mighty Peace, trailing after him like a lost puppy, desperate for his attention.

“Andy.” Puller muttered.

The captain blinked. He stood up carefully. A map of the terrain separated them, rough sketches and ink scribbles and scored out numbers. Dire straights were presented in the artistry, they both knew it.

“We’re gon’ need you out there.” The colonel said, “I don’t pretend to know what a god gives you, but whatever it is-“ His gaze moved over the table. “We’re gon’ need it.”

Andy’s eyes followed, red circles and black arrows blurring with torn edges. There was dirt around the corners, mud splatter over one side. Guadalcanal laid bare in all its paper glory.

There would be blood to soak it soon enough. The captain didn’t doubt he meant that literally.

“Yes, sir.” He said, unsure of what more there was to say.


End file.
